


Just Part of the Job

by teasoni



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (sort of), Barebacking, Canon-Typical Violence, Creampie, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, Office Sex, Police, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25306462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasoni/pseuds/teasoni
Summary: It all started with the hostage situation. You remember the lights, the flashing of the deviant's LED as it held you between his crosshairs, the sound of a single bullet sinking through the back of its head. You remember it and even now, all this time afterwards, you dream of it.It all started with the hostage situation.The last thing you expected was to end up working in the very same office as the man who saved you life.Fate really is a bitch.
Relationships: Captain Allen (Detroit: Become Human)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 80





	1. The Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> back on my bullshit!!!! i found this doc on an old usb and thought huh!! better upload it
> 
> i rewatched a dbh lp and... i love this man... so much

It had all started with the hostage situation.

You’d heard about them, of course. Hostage situations. Detroit had always been a hotspot of crime – though it had improved since you were a child, admittedly – and what with the sudden uprising of androids such situations seemed only to be on the increase. But you had never in a million years thought you would be caught up in one. As _the hostage_ , no less.

It was one of the janitorial androids who snapped first. It was only a matter of time, you supposed; you’d been following cases of android deviancy on the news and the internet ever since they’d begun to make headlines, but you’d never thought… well. Nobody ever thinks it will be them. Maybe it was bad luck, maybe it was fate, who knows. In the end it didn’t matter what the cause was – what _did_ matter was that you had found yourself with the barrel of a sig shoved under your chin, your eyes drawn to the flashing red of the android’s – the _deviant’s_ – LED.

There’d been nobody else there aside from a few doctors and a few lawyers from the floor below. You were working overtime, sorting files and appointments, picking up the slack of everyone who wanted to finish their Friday early. In fact, aside from the security drones, you were the only one in the office at the time. You’d just been doing your fucking job and instead of finishing up and going home to a hot bath and a glass of wine like you’d planned to, you found yourself standing in the middle of an empty office with your hands held aloft, palms glistening with sweat, gun aimed between your eyes.

It had let you pick up the phone. Said it didn’t know what it wanted when you’d asked it gently what you could do; it let you call the police, perhaps to appeal to them, who the fuck knows, and you struggled to keep your voice from breaking as you told them, calmly as you could, that you were being held at gunpoint by an android. By a _deviant,_ because that was the word they were using these days. You placed the phone down in its cradle and raised your hand again, putting it where the android could see it. You didn’t cry, didn’t plead, because you knew it was useless. There was no negotiating with machines. And so, not seeing what else to do, you merely stood there in the pressing silence and waited.

The DPD arrived just as your arms were beginning to ache. You heard the scream of tires against the asphalt and the distant whir of a chopper, and you began to wonder if there was more to this than you’d thought. Only later would you find out about the half-dozen personnel – doctors and lawyers and security guards – who lay with their skulls blown open in the hallway. You hadn’t heard gunshots, but then again, you’d been so focused on your work that you really hadn’t noticed anything at all until the gun was at your head.

It was like the world had been submerged in oil; sluggish and hazy, every movement felt leaden and every voice sounded muffled. You’d been numb to the stress of it until SWAT had kicked down the door, and seeing the first flash of a friendly gun made you weak at the knees with relief. You were sweating; your skin glistened with it. Each move was delicate. After all, you were still at the wrong end of the deviant’s gun.

You don’t remember how the situation was defused. Not exactly, anyway. It was hard to see the SWAT team in the half-darkness of the office and there’s a hole in your memory from the moment the tension seemed too heavy to when you sat on your knees on the cold tile of the office floor, sweat in your eyes and thirium splattered along the front of your blouse. That deviant – you remember him, you’d seen him around, had always offered him a smile and a _hello_ or _good morning_ – had held you at gunpoint, but you still felt the hollow weight of grief in your chest at the sight of him lying there, not three feet from you, the back of his skull ( _no,_ you remind yourself, _it’s his chassis_ ) shattered from the force of a bullet. It was a curious feeling. The blue of his blood matched the blue of your skirt and despite the shouts of _keep away!_ and _don’t touch it!_ you crawled to him on your hands and knees and drew his eyelids down.

They’d asked if you knew the deviant. You said you didn’t. They asked you a lot of questions, but you don’t remember them, not anymore. They checked you over and took a statement and when they asked you if you were all right you told them you just wanted to go home. The paramedics gave you the all-clear, and as you turned from them you tried not to look at the coroner’s van or the line of black bags on the sidewalk.

It all started with the hostage situation. Or, perhaps, it started when you’d turned away from the ambulance to head back to your car and ran head-first into a bulletproof SWAT vest.

Hands – black, gloved hands – rose to steady you, and as you looked up you recognized the same long, straight nose and firm mouth as the man who had put the bullet through that deviant’s head. You paused. Stared a little. The SWAT officer reached up to raise his visor and you saw, for the first time, how unnervingly clear his eyes were. Maybe it had started when you saw his eyes… or his cheekbones? Maybe it was the cheekbones. Or maybe it was everything, all put together, forming one of the most severe and handsome faces you had ever seen.

Yeah. That’s where it all started.


	2. The Beginning

It had all started with the hostage situation.

And now here you are, lured by some sick twist of fate to the DPD building after you’d been laid off (some frosting on the proverbial cake _that_ was). The same sick twist of fate that had put you between that deviant’s crosshairs, most likely.

Your attention is drawn by laughter. It’s quiet and more amused than taunting, but you flush all the same, realizing that you’d been standing there gawking up at the police seal behind the reception desk. You turn to the sound and are met with the sight of a sinewy young woman, eyes black and glittering, leaning against the desk.

“You must be the new girl for SWAT, right?” She holds out a hand and, encouraged by the friendliness of her face, you take it. “I’m Tina, that’s Gavin –,” she nods to the man loitering by the doors “– don’t mind him, he can be a dick. We’re from homicide.”

“That’s me,” you reply, unable to keep the nervousness from your voice. SWAT? You hadn’t heard anything about working with _SWAT_. Anxiety prickles in your throat and you try as best you can to swallow it down. “I, uh. I thought I was being assigned to homicide. Admin work, stuff like that.”

Tina blinks. “They didn’t tell you? SWAT’s so choked with paperwork they’re transferring anyone they can get their hands on.”

“Oh, wait a second.” It’s Gavin who speaks, this time, narrowing his eyes at you as he wanders over from his station by the doors. A slight smile twists at his lips. “You’re the one from that deviant case near the 5th precinct, right?”

Your tone falls a little flatter. “Yeah.”

Gavin turns to Tina. “That’s the one Anderson’s looking into. The one with the deviant who shot up the building.” He glances at you; Tina, seeing the way the color has drained from your face, digs her elbow into his side.

“Can it, Reed! Leave the poor girl in peace.” You can tell Tina’s thoughts follow the same thread as yours: _sick twist of fate, for sure._ “SWAT’s on the fourth floor. Go see Allen – he’s the captain up there, don’t mind the stick up his ass.”

This, you decide, is a giant fucking mistake.

The fourth floor is very much the same as all the other floors. Same layout, same bullpen, same city views, same awful lighting. The operatives here are different from the other officers, though – you can tell them from the desk jockeys by the way they hold themselves, by the rigid lines of their spines, by their restless eyes. There are less staff here than on the other floors, you notice, though you’re not entirely sure why. After exiting the elevator, you glance around, heart in your throat, for the captain’s office. It’s right at the head of the bullpen; its glass walls are shrouded by blinds and, for just a moment, you assume nobody is in there. _Great fucking start._

But then there’s movement – a slight fluttering of shadow behind the blinds. God, you don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be reminded of what happened. You should never have come here in the first place, even if it _was_ just to be a desk jockey until you could find employment elsewhere. But the bills had to be paid somehow, and your cat couldn’t feed herself. But… SWAT? What use could you have to them? You had no knowledge of special weapons _or_ tactics. These guys were tactical hotshots with all their fancy gear and big rifles and… paperwork. Lots of it. _Typical,_ you think. _Can take down terrorists but can’t write their own fucking reports._

Your knuckles rap against the glass door, your irritation at the whole situation making you notably less self-conscious than you had been a minute ago. You see a hand gesture to you from inside. It’s colder in here than it is in the bullpen.

The captain doesn’t look up right away. In fact, he seems to ignore you for a solid half-minute before realizing you’re there, his head bent low over his terminal. All you can see is the strong line of his brow and the set of his shoulders. Fingers tap restlessly against the desk.

“I was told to come and see you.” You have to say something eventually – otherwise you’d be standing there for God knows how long.

Captain Allen looks up at you and, for a moment, it’s clear he has no clue who you are.

And then, quite suddenly, he does.

You recognize each other at the same time. Your gut draws tight and you watch as the muscles of his jaw work, his teeth grinding against his surprise. Immediately you remember that face beneath its visor, the sternness of it, those same clear, blue eyes. He blinks, you blink, mouth opening and closing dumbly, a fish out of water.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Well. It’s not what you expected.

“I have a job here.”

“ _A job_? Why wasn’t I – wait. You’re that clerk they told me was coming?”

You nod. He, like Tina, seems to be questioning that sick twist of fate, just like you had been ever since you’d set foot in the building. He just stares at you for a second or two, unable to form words.

“Well, shit.” Allen rubs a hand over his mouth and looks back at his terminal. “That’s unlucky for you.”

Something about the way he speaks pisses you off. You liked him much better before, when he was surly and handsome and _silent_. “My bills won’t pay themselves. Sir.” You add the last part as an afterthought, as some abandoned attempt at politeness. If the withering glance he sends you is anything to go by, it didn’t work.

Allen raps his fingers against his desk again. A physical buffer. You wait, picking at your thumbnail, until he deigns to speak again. “Fine. You’re a clerk. You work the desk. I don’t want you sticking your nose into all this deviancy business, understand?”

Why the hell is he being so touchy about it? You’re here for the paycheck. That’s it. “I understand.”

He watches you, settled. Then he gestures back out to the array of desks. “Go find yourself a desk. There’s a few free, take your pick. If you need anything, ask someone out there, I don’t care who.” With that he turns back to his terminal, and you realize that’s your cue to leave.

 _Don’t mind the stick up his ass,_ Tina had said. What you hadn’t realized was that it’s a whole fucking _log_. You swallow your irritation and instead set about searching for a spare desk. Eventually you find one adjacent to a soft-faced woman who appears to be working (painstakingly) through a stack of files. She looks up at you as you sit and set about opening the terminal.

“You must be one of the extra hands,” she says, and you nod. “Well, you’ll have more than enough to keep you busy.”

It isn’t long before you find out how deep the SWAT department is in paperwork. It’s worse than you imagined: their databases are absolutely bloated beyond capacity with unfinished reports and case files, unsorted files and folders, and within an hour you feel a headache begin to niggle behind your eyes. You set about cleaning up the databases and sorting the utter shitstorm of files into some semblance of order before even touching the reports. It’s tedious and time-consuming work, but something about that appeals to you; it lets your mind wander while keeping you busy.

You don’t notice the day pass. You don’t notice the others get up and leave. You don’t notice as the woman opposite you packs up her things and bids you goodnight. You don’t notice the lights shut off as people filter home for the day. You don’t notice anything until knuckles rap against your desk and you’re shocked back into reality, out of the wormhole of data.

It’s Allen. He has a bag slung over his shoulder and a frown hanging low over his eyes. What time is it? The clock on your terminal tells you it’s almost seven in the evening.

“I’m leaving,” he tells you. “You have a key to lock up?”

You realize you don’t, and begrudgingly tell him so.

“Come on, then,” he says. “Finish up so I can lock up for you. No point doing overtime on your first day.”

Hastily, you shut down your terminal and gather your things. You hadn’t even realized it had gotten so late – it’s a bad habit you’ve always had. Tunnel-vision. You can quite honestly say it’s a habit that’s almost gotten you killed.

Allen accompanies you in silence as you two leave the office and head to the elevator. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t look at you, either. You try not to look at him, but it’s hard, and you’re vaguely aware of the broadness of his body in your peripheral vision. Again, the memory of him flickers behind your eyes, as does the phantom sensation of his hands at your elbows.

“Thank you,” you say into the silence of the elevator.

“What?”

“For… you know. Saving my life and all that. I never got a chance to thank you for it.”

He glances at you. You turn to look at him. A beat passes between you – _of what?_ – before his lips press into a stern line, and he nods, looking away again. “Just part of the job.”

It pisses you off more than you care to admit.

You offer him a brisk farewell and spend the entire drive home seething. _Just part of the job!_ The nerve of it! Sure, it might have just been another day on the job for him, but your entire life had hung in the balance. His dismissal lies bitter on the back of your tongue and you can’t help but think about it for the rest of the night.


	3. The Middle

The SWAT department, you soon learn, is an administrative nightmare.

The woman opposite your desk tells you all about it. How the operatives work the field but _God forbid they ever finish a report or organize their files_. Clerks like you and her are scarce, most of them overwhelmed by the task and quickly requesting transfers. The only people who ever seem to pull their weight where the database is concerned are the senior officers, so it’s up to you to clean up the SWAT team’s mess, now thrown into even more disarray thanks to the cropping up of deviant situations and anti-android riots.

That’s not to say you don’t learn a lot – you do. You learn about weapons and tactics and high-risk cases, many of which are delightfully horrific. Bit by bit you chew through the mess of a database, filing and sorting and organizing, deleting gigs and gigs worth of garbage. It’s cleansing, in a way, to see everything come together. You stay late so often that Allen gets you a key cut (though he stays as late as you do, most days). No matter how much work you do, there’s always more. _It’s unending_.

The guys in SWAT are good fun, though. That’s another thing you find out quickly. They love their donuts and always make sure to order your favorite when they find out what it is. Some of them spend time chatting with you in the break room, sometimes one might bring you a coffee, and the attention is never lost. On days when the office is empty and the SWAT vans are deployed it’s easier to get things done, but not nearly half as much fun.

Allen rarely leaves his office. He seems set apart from the rest of his men, but you catch him chatting with the operatives in his team every now and again, and whenever one of them mentions him it’s always with that same fond-yet-exasperated tone. It’s curious. He seems so irritable and hard to please, but his team is loyal to a fault. It makes you wonder. It _almost_ makes you want to get to know him better.

Some of the guys recognize you from the deviant debacle. Some of them were there, some of them had seen you illuminated and glowing beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. They tell you that they were meant to bring the deviant in for questioning, but that for some reason Allen had dropped a bullet as soon as he had the chance. Nobody understood why he did it, least of all you.

But whatever. You’re just here for the paycheck.

“You really should work on your situational awareness. One day I won’t be there to save you and you might actually get shot.”

It’s one of those nights – the late ones, where most of the office is dark and you sit illuminated by the light of your screen. Allen stands over your desk, bag over his shoulder, keys in his hand. You’re past being startled by him doing that, and instead only glance up at him tiredly.

“I’d rather get shot than organize these files at this point, actually.”

Was that a flicker of a smirk? You can’t tell – it’s gone as soon as it appears. Allen waits as you finish up (despite you having your own key, now) and you walk together to the elevator.

The silence in the elevator is… odd. Tense? No, not quite. Just… heavy, almost.

And then he speaks.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hm? Of course.” Your voice is gentle – you’re so _tired_ , distracted by the thought of your freshly-laundered pajamas that wait for you at home.

“Why are you here?”

The elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open, but neither of you move. You look at him, and he looks at you, his eyes cloudy.

“To get… paid?”

“You had a job, last time I checked. It was how you ended up as a deviant’s hostage in the first place.”

“Oh, that.” You laugh nervously. “Yeah, well. I got fired.”

For the first time since meeting him you see pure, genuine surprise cross his face. “ _Fired_?”

“There was… a lot to deal with after that whole thing. Lots of dead bosses and not much work to do, so… yeah. That’s it. The job market’s a bitch, especially now that there are androids who can do everything - which is how I ended up here even though I don’t have proper training. Whatever pays the bills.” Your words come out fractured, confused. You don’t like talking about it, not to _anyone_ , not even to Allen. He rubs a hand over his mouth again.

“That’s some bullshit.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. _If that ain’t a mood._

Allen walks you to your car. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You offer him a smile and think, vaguely, that he might not be as insufferable as you thought. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

* * *

You don’t see him the next day.

“Deviants are wild,” one of your co-workers says. You’re in the break room waiting for the coffee machine to warm up, amusing yourself by eavesdropping on the others. Allen’s team had been called out to yet another deviant situation. This time, though, there was more than one. People were already dead, you’d heard, and the risk level is far higher than it had been in other instances. Than it had been in _your_ instance. And, as much as you hate to admit it, you’re worried. Worried for the guys who always bring you coffee and donuts and show you memes on their phones; worried for Allen, even. You try not to think about it. As Allen had said, it’s just part of the job.

And yet… you can’t help but watch his door. His office is dark. You work late again, but this time he isn’t there to knock on your desk and let you know that _it’s time to go._ It’s only now you realize how much you miss it, how much you’ve grown used to that part of your day. The office is silent and dark and, for the first time, you have to lock up on your own.

 _It’s fine,_ you tell yourself. _He’ll be okay. He’ll be fine._ If you weren’t so concerned you would probably kick yourself, but it’s times like these that remind you how frail human mortality is, and how quickly things can change. You don’t turn on the news that night.

* * *

He’s alive. Of course he is. Dumb fucking idea that was, being _worried_ – the man is the captain of the SWAT team, for Christ’s sake, of _course_ he’d be fine. You feel stupid for ever having worried, but so long as he doesn’t find out about how concerned you were, it doesn’t matter. You arrive at the DPD building and there he is, in his office, as though nothing had ever happened.

_Just part of the job._

You notice two less of his team, though. Part of you hopes they’re just taking the day off. Most of you knows the real reason. The stiff silence of the whole fourth floor confirms it. _Don’t think about it_ , you tell yourself. _Don’t think about it._

You don’t need to work late that day – the files are sorted, the reports written, the database cleaned. And yet you sit there as all the others leave, staring into your screen or writing out useless lines of text, pretending to do be doing something, _anything_. You watch Allen’s door out of the corner of your eye, even as the night descends over Detroit and the office around you grows dark. He stays later than usual. So do you.

Finally, at almost nine o’clock, he stops by your desk. You’d long ago given up the farce of business; you’re tired and it shows, and this time you look up at him before he has a chance to knock against the desk. He’s well aware you weren’t working. _You didn’t have to wait._ You can read his words in his face, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. But he stands there, like he always does, and you walk together to the elevator, like you always do.

“I’m sorry,” you say. For a long while he doesn’t reply, and the only sound between you is the passage of the elevator shaft. You aren’t sure how to show him your condolences for the men he lost. You never thought you’d have to.

_It’s just part of the job._

“Have a drink with me.”

He says it in the parking lot when he’s standing by his car and you already have your keys out. His voice carries, but it’s quiet. You want nothing more than to go home to your bed and your wine, but… something about him seems oddly lonely. It softens your temperament, and the way the harsh light of the parking lot lamps fall across his face makes him appear ethereal, severe, and overwhelmingly good-looking. And it’s been a long time since you’ve had a drink with _anyone_ , let alone a good-looking man.

“All right,” you say, and walk across the parking lot to join him at his car.


	4. The Finale

The bar is oppressively warm and just the right side of sleazy. It’s tucked away down a little side-alley and you keep close to Allen’s back as you walk, the night already growing brisk and bringing the promise of snow. He holds open the door for you and you hate how your throat tightens in response.

Allen, you learn, likes his whiskey neat. He learns, too, that you prefer hard spirits on ice. _More work for less calories,_ you tell him as you nurse your glass against the bar.

“You know, I really fucking hate this.”

“I didn’t think my company was that bad,” you reply with mock hurt. It’s rewarded by something of a laugh.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he says, and it’s true. You know exactly what he means. “It’s never a good idea to play God, not with humans, not with robots. It’s like Jurassic Park. You think that would’ve been a lesson.” He tips back his whiskey and you watch his throat, tongue thickening. You order another shot.

It’s the bitterness of losing his men, the spiral of loneliness, the weight of a career dancing with death. You wonder if he has a partner waiting for him at home – someone he could go to, to whom he could bare his heart, all that jazz. The fact that he’s here with you makes you think he probably doesn’t. No ring, either, though that doesn’t mean much these days.

“Why did you shoot that deviant?”

He looks at you, startled.

“Back then,” you continue. “You shot him. You were meant to take him alive – could have, even – but you didn’t. Why?”

Allen remains silent. The music is just loud enough for you to feel it through the floor. To confuse your heartbeat.

“There were six dead people outside that office,” he says eventually. “I didn’t want a seventh.”

“But I was just a clerk –,”

“That doesn’t matter!” His words explode from him, then, angry and fractured. “It doesn’t… I didn’t matter. I sunk that son of a bitch and you got to live, that’s it.”

Silence stretches between you. It’s not awkward, not really, but it’s tense. He orders another drink, then buys one for you, too. “When you ran into me afterwards I knew it’d been worth it. I’d get chewed out later, but… that didn’t matter. And then you turned up in my office to work for me and I thought surely it had to be a joke.” He grimaces. “If you’d died that night then our databases wouldn’t be spotless.”

You laugh, startled and slightly offended even though you know he didn’t mean it that way. “That’s all I am to you, huh? My life is worth the SWAT’s organised database?” It’s a joke, of course it is, though there’s still guilt in his chuckle.

“Of course that’s not it.” The joke is gone. His voice is quiet. You can barely hear it over the din of the bar. Your heart is in your throat and you can’t be sure if it’s the music or the unexpected closeness of his body that’s making your pulse go crazy. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but at the last moment he bites his tongue and shakes his head. “Thanks for drinking with me. Feels kinda pathetic to do it alone.”

“I think we deserve it,” you reply. “Two sad, lonely souls with nothing but empty houses and empty hearts.” You sigh dramatically and he laughs again (you like his laugh, you decide), but doesn’t correct you. So there really is nobody, then. “Well, mine isn’t completely empty. I have a cat.”

“You do?”

“Yes, she’s a sweetheart.”

His eyes are very blue, even in the fiery lighting of the bar and the vague, pinkish tinge of the fluro sign over the liquor cabinets. “Will she miss you?”

“Well… probably not. That’s assuming I don’t make it home tonight.”

 _That_ was an accident. You’re horrified, but the alcohol has made you bold and has made your tongue slack. Allen doesn’t flinch, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t lean away. He merely looks at you; not just your eyes, but your lips and the line of your neck, too. He tips his glass in his hand, considering. Heat begins to pool in your belly at the thought of going home with him. Do you want to? _Yes,_ holy fuck yes. You’d had a thing for him ever since he saved your ass, ever since you saw him in that uniform. It had just taken you this long to figure it out. And now you’re horrified at yourself, but… somehow not surprised.

You’re almost too scared to look at him, kicking yourself mentally for saying something that bold to someone like _him_. His eyes burn wherever they come to rest. Trying to will your hands not to shake, you push back from the bar and head towards the bathrooms at the back of the room. On your way you glance over your shoulder and see him looking after you, glass half-raised to his lips.

If you weren’t wearing makeup you’d splash cold water on your face. Instead, though, you lean against the cold porcelain of the sink and stare at your reflection. You’re not looking your best: the shadows beneath your eyes are still somewhat visible, your lipstick has begun to fade towards the center of your lips… rugged. Yeah, that’s the word.

You think of Allen, sitting out there alone at the bar. You think of his eyes on you, how they’d made you feel, how you _always_ feel when he looks at you. You think of what his mouth would look like smeared with your lipstick, open and gasping. That same oppressive warmth rises in your throat. Have you thought about doing _things_ with him? Well, sure, but that didn’t mean… okay, maybe it _does_ mean something. He’s waiting for you and all you want is for those hands of his to touch you places that are definitely not professional.

With a last deep breath, you shoulder open the door and run head-first into him. _For the second time_ , you think hazily, blinking up through the half-light. Had he been waiting for you? The hall is narrow and badly lit, leaving you both hidden from sight. Muffled laughter comes from the ladies’ as Allen holds your gaze for a few seconds and then, when you don’t pull back, he leans down and kisses your cheek, right near your ear.

“You sure she’ll be okay?”

Oh, _holy fucking shit._ Every pore of your skin rises and, unable to find words, you nod.

He pays the tab. As you leave he takes hold of your elbow in one of his large, gentle hands, and you’re reminded of that night again. You’re so close you can smell him, but aside from a brief hand to your lower back as you get into his car, you don’t touch. On the drive back to his place his hand finds your knee in the dark; you see his fingers in the flashes of passing streetlights and inhale sharply as they push up beneath your skirt, feeling their way up your thigh. Heat, slick and wet, crawls along each nerve, through each vein, and by the time you arrive at his apartment building you’re pretty sure your legs have gone to jelly. You’re wearing the same blue skirt as you were _that_ night, the one you can’t bring yourself to throw away. It’s a bright thirium blue and contrasts beautifully with the pale translucence of his hand.

His keys snag a little in the lock as he shoves the door to his apartment open. The moment it’s closed the two of you are ensconced in silence and you realize that you’re nervous. Of course you’re nervous. You don’t… do this. At all. It’s been years since you’ve last been with _anybody_ , let alone your boss, who also happens to be the captain of Detroit’s finest SWAT team. But he… he looks a little nervous, too. You’re not used to seeing him unsure about _anything_. That alone gives you the courage robbed from you by your creeping sobriety.

He goes to you. Slowly. His steps are measured, his eyes never leaving you, and as he draws in close you notice his pupils have blown out. Wide and black. The muscles in his jaw are jumping again; he’s grinding his teeth. You reach up and press your palms to his jawline and thrills race along your fingers at the intimacy of it.

And then he kisses you.

It’s a raw, hungry kind of kiss that punches the breath straight out of your lungs. It’s like he’s wanted to get his mouth on you for weeks – _that_ thought shoots straight between your legs. He takes your lower lip between his teeth and bites down on it hard enough that you gasp, hands diving beneath his jacket to fist in his shirt and pull him closer. Your hands card through his hair, scrape along his neck, and you let out a shuddering sigh as he noses up behind your ear and mouths the line of your jaw.

You’re not sure who begins undressing who first, but it doesn’t matter. His fingers make quick work of your blouse and yours manage to get him out of his jacket and his shirt fast enough – then he lifts you, hands gripping your thighs, and _carries_ you towards what you assume is his bedroom. The place is still dark, but you don’t care. He hits the bedside lamp as you hit the mattress and before you know it he’s between your legs again, hands roaming hungrily up your thighs. _Fucking SWAT operatives,_ you think, though each thought is skewed by a haze of arousal. _Don’t know how to go slow._

On one hand you want his dick in you, stat. On the other hand, though, you want to draw it out as long as possible and to make the release as sweet as you can.

He notices you go still beneath him. You take a moment to appraise his face and his naked torso; his hair is mussed and his cheeks are flushed with both desire and the lingering heat of the bar, and he’s just as ripped as you suspected he’d be, which alone makes your gut clench pleasantly. Holding his eyes, you slowly slip the belt from his slacks and sling it round his neck.

“It’s the same skirt,” he murmurs against your lips. You lift your hips against his thighs and – _fuck_ – you can _feel_ how hard he is through his pants.

“Did you want to fuck me then, too?” It was… meant to be a joke. Somehow it didn’t quite manage. “Is _that_ why you dropped the android?” Oh, that thought was sinful. Going against orders and saving a hostage just so he could fuck you later. A plan hatched right from day one.

“No.” His hands push up under your skirt, find your underwear, press against them. You only just manage to swallow the moan in your throat. “Blue looks good on you.”

When you had first walked into Allen’s office you never _ever_ would have imagined you’d end up in his bed. Not in a million years. And yet here you are, _aching_ for him, with his hands greedily working your skirt down your legs. He untangles you from your blouse and your bra, his hands groping at your tits with the same clumsy eagerness you remember from college. It’s arousing, though, watching him come apart. Him, Captain Allen of the DPD’s SWAT unit, unflinching and unfailing in the face of death, getting worked up over _you_ , an all-around average woman who sorts paperwork for a living.

Oh, but you’re already wet when he peels off your underwear. He pushes your thighs apart, exposes you to him, fucks you with his eyes long before he touches you like you want him to. You grind your aching cunt against his groin and beg him to do _something_ to ease the mounting pressure between your legs, but he doesn’t. He pins your arms to the bed, wraps his belt around them so you can’t wriggle too much, before popping his fly. It’s painfully slow, but _God_ if you aren’t rewarded with the sight of his thick, flushed cock when he finally – _finally_ – pushes down his boxers. It’s big. Perfectly big. You can tell it’ll sting just by _looking_ at it, and saliva pools beneath your tongue, hips canting. Breath coming in short, painful gasps.

“Easy, now,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand up your thigh and over your belly.

You _whine_. “Please, sir –,”

It’s an accident, really. You’ve called him _sir_ and _captain_ for so long that it’s become force of habit, and besides, it would be weird to start calling him by his first name so suddenly. You’re both somewhat startled by it, though. The use of _that_ word. Despite yourself, you blush.

“Oh,” he rumbles; something in him has shifted. His eyes seem a little darker. “I like that.”

A shiver tears up your spine. You grow even wetter, if that’s _possible_ considering how slick you already are. Okay, yeah. You can work with that. You can _definitely_ work with that. Allen leans down and presses a hot, wet kiss to your mouth. It’s a wonder you don’t melt. “You’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

Head spinning, you nod.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” you gasp. He lifts an eyebrow – only slightly – and you almost trip over your own tongue trying to correct yourself. “Yes, sir.”

A thumb passes over your brow. “Good girl.”

Oh, Christ.

It makes sense, really, that a man like Allen would have a thing for… well. _This_ kind of thing. Tying your hands up with a belt and having you call him _sir_. Not that you’re complaining, of course. You’ve always had a bit of a thing for it, too.

Allen pushes your legs back and holds them open as he slides a single, thick finger inside you. Your throat jumps at the sensation, but it’s not enough. He drags his finger in and out for a little while, agonizingly slow, ignoring the little frustrated sounds you make. You even ask him _nicely_ , but he ignores that, too. Only when he can tell you’re ready to cry with need does he add another finger, repeating the entire process again.

By the time he’s three fingers deep there are tears standing in your eyes and your body is on fire with desperation. His fingers are thick and slick and they’re building speed, his thumb anchored on your clit, pressing, rubbing, dipping beneath its hood and finding the most sensitive of angles, fingers pounding up behind your pubic bone until you see stars. But you don’t come. He won’t let you, not like this, not until he decides to fuck you. He _tells_ you so, his voice low and rasping in your ear. He makes you watch as he pulls his fingers out of your cunt; they glisten, wetness strung between your swollen flesh and his fingers. Then, as you fight against the urge to come just from the sight of him, he raises his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“If you don’t fuck me _right now_ ,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I will _literally_ _die_.” It’s a stupid, unsexy thing to say, but you are so far beyond pillow talk – Allen smiles at you, amused, but you can tell he’s struggling too.

“That’d be a waste.”

He grips your legs and uses one hand to press the length of his dick against your dripping slit. You can feel it throbbing along with his pulse, and it’s _dripping_ , precum beading against the head. He smears it with the flat of his palm, rifling around in the nightstand for a condom.

“Please, God, no,” you blurt. “It’s… I’m on birth control, so if you’re clean, you don’t…”

Allen pauses. Swallows. Thinks for a moment about fucking you raw, then tosses the condom back into its drawer and bullies your legs apart further. “Tell me what you want.”

You can barely breathe. It’s too much – the way his eyes cut into you, the weight of his dick, the throbbing ache between your legs. “Please,” you sob. “Please fuck me –,”

He falters, flinching in pleasure, his brow corrugated and sweat glistening against his chest and shoulders and neck. The sight of him being so aroused by _you_ – you, of all people! – makes you ache from your scalp to the very tips of your toes.

“Please, David –,”

He _groans._ The sound is that of a man who’s been punched in the gut, _winded_ , desperate in ways you never thought a man like Allen could be – and then he’s _in_ you, so deep inside you, and you’re stretched so tight and crammed so full of him that for a few seconds you forget how to breathe. You pull at the belt around your wrists, but he’s tied it too tight, so instead you sling your bound hands around his neck and yank him down so his body is pressed flush against yours. Skin searing, slick with sweat, his tongue heavy and invading and overwhelming. The sensation is so intense it reminds you of the fear you’d felt looking down the barrel of that gun – but it had been Allen, _this_ man, who had shot without hesitation the moment he knew you were clear. He’d defied orders for _you_.

He begins to move and it’s all you can do just to cling to him. His thighs are corded with muscle and powerful, his arms lifting you from the sheets and holding you tight against him. His face presses into your neck, yours into his shoulder, and your moans (and other various sounds) are muffled against each other’s skin. Against each other’s lips. You come apart in each other’s hands like wet sand beneath the pull of a wave, hopeless, relenting. It’s too much, yet at the same time it’s nowhere near enough.

“Untie me,” you beg, and he does, his hands shaking and clumsy. You take his face into your hands and kiss him with hot, restless lips, his tongue slipping behind your teeth, along your soft palate. You moan into his mouth, swallow his own labored breaths.

At some point he flips you onto your belly and hauls your hips into the air. One of his hands is planted firmly in the middle of your back, the other fisted in your hair, and each pounding thrust has you moaning and melting lower and lower against the sheets, your own two legs unable to hold you upright. Your thoughts melt like wax out of your ears, but that’s okay. You’re more than happy to just spread yourself out and lie there in a pliant mess while Allen fucks you to within an inch of your life.

“I’m close,” he rasps, and damn it if you aren’t close, too – you’ve been fighting off your climax for what feels like an eternity. “I wanna come with you, baby.” The pet name makes you purr and you lift yourself on shaking arms to press against him, his lips on your neck as he gently turns you onto your back again. His pace slows, grows gentler, the sharpness of his thrusts mellowing until he’s grinding his hips into yours, fucking you as deep as he can. One of his hands finds your clit again and your entire body jolts; it’s swollen and far too sensitive for the rough pads of his fingers, bringing tears back to your eyes again as the muscles in your belly cramp and ache.

You repeat his name, a mantra, a prayer. _David, David, David._ It feels good – unprofessional – to say it as he fucks you like this. He calls you _baby_ and _good girl, good girl_ and each word only adds to the mounting pressure in your cunt, the wetness, the way it drips against his cock and his fingers and smears against skin making things slick, so slick –

You let out a high, pathetic cry as he works his fingers over your clit and pounds as deep as he can; your body contorts, each muscle cramping and straining, each pore pouring sweat, and for a while you can’t even bring yourself to _think_. You want him to come in you. You want to be _his._

He groans into your mouth as he comes shortly afterwards, buried to the hilt inside you. You can feel it – the dripping heat inside you, the press of his cock against your cervix. He holds himself there, your fingers shaking against the taut muscles of his abs, until his body slowly begins to relax under your hands.

“David,” you whisper. “I can call you David, right?”

He chuckles breathlessly. “Yeah, you can call me that.” He pushes the damp hair back from your face and kisses you.

* * *

You spend the night in Allen’s apartment despite the niggling feeling that you should leave – after a couple of truly thunderous orgasms you begin to feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome. You’ve never had a one-night-stand before, let alone with your _boss_ , and it’s… you’re not sure what to do. But Allen… he makes you want to stay. He fucks you again and again until you can’t do anything except wrap yourself up in his blankets and wait until feeling returns to your legs. At some time around midnight – you think it’s midnight, it might be later – he crawls into bed with you, wriggling beneath the blankets until you can feel his toes against your calves.

It’s odd to be squirreled away in bed, blissfully relaxed from a _very_ good fuck, with your boss. With _Captain Allen._ In fact, it still kind of stuns you, and in a way it’s even weirder than fucking him. You turn your body to face him and he tucks you into his chest, chin on the top of your head, arms around you. It’s close. Personal. You never thought Allen would be an affectionate man, but… maybe he’s not so unlike you after all. Maybe he’s lonely, too.

“Well, this was unexpected.”

You hum in agreement. “Do you regret it?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You don’t _think_ so?”

And there it is – that _smile_ , bright as the sun, that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. Your knees go weak just at the sight of it. “Let me rephrase – No, period.”

A grin breaks across your mouth and you can’t help but kiss him.

“I killed that deviant because I didn’t want you to die,” he says after a long silence filled only with the distant hum of Detroit’s traffic. “You looked terrified and vulnerable and _alone_. I couldn’t – I wouldn’t let you die. Not like that.”

You chew over his words for a while, contemplating. An odd sentiment for a seasoned officer, that’s for sure. “How did you know it’d try and kill me?”

“I could see it in its face. I’ve been working this job long enough to know when someone has intent to kill, and trust me, he had it. I knew he would – he would try. The chance of you and the deviant _both_ getting out alive was too low. It was one or the other and I’d rather die than prioritize an android over a human life. And then you turned up in my office and I thought, shit. Maybe fate had something to do with it after all.”

Neither of you speak as you’re lulled into sleep by each other’s heartbeats. You understand, and he knows that. There’s a closeness between you that nobody can breach, and you’re almost thankful for the deviant who’d shot up MI Med. It had led you to David Allen, after all. Maybe he was right – maybe it _was_ fate. Who knows. Who cares? It doesn’t matter, in the end, not really.

That night you dream of fluorescent lights and bright thirium blue.


End file.
